


damp towel + feverish skin

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Quick and Efficient Whump, Waterboarding, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25471540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: Tumblr prompt: a damp towel against flushed, feverish skin
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 105





	damp towel + feverish skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nativestar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nativestar/gifts).



> It only took about six weeks, but I do get around to answering my prompts eventually. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

Feeling a presence hovering over him, Mac jerks awake. Throwing his arm out in a defensive block and propels himself upright, gasping when his hand is caught. The sharp intake of breath sticks in his throat and catches in his lungs.

"Easy, easy, just me, hoss. Just Jack," he murmurs, reaching out, the back of his hand resting on Mac's forehead. Placing his other hand on Mac's neck, brushing against the pulse under his jaw.

Mac curls away from Jac’s touch, pulling his legs up close to his chest. His chest that rattles and crackles with each pained inhale. 

There’s a tightness in his lungs, keeping his breaths shallow. A tickle settles, deep in his chest. He won’t be able to ignore it for long, shouldn’t ignore it. He knows this. It’s not his first run-in with pneumonia. He needs to breathe. Deeply. Not these aborted gasps that he’s surviving on now. Expel the fluid that's settling. It’s just going to hurt.

A lot.

And he’s not looking forward to it. 

“Can you sit up for me?” Jack asks, tugging on his arm. All he wants to do is fold into himself, try to warm up. He’s so cold. But Jack is persistent. A moment later, his chest is solid behind Mac’s back. 

And he must be able to feel the shudder of congestion in Mac’s chest with each breath because a moment later he begins pestering. 

“Try to cough for me, bud.” Jack’s mouth is against the shell of his ear, whispering encouragement. Commands to breathe. “Come on now, hoss. Cough.” 

“No,” Mac mutters, shaking his head in protest. Each breath a raspy wheeze. But he can feel it building and he won’t be able to hold it off much longer. 

“You gotta get it out, buddy.” Jack rubs gentle circles against Mac’s chest. “You’re gonna feel better once you cough.”

“No, it won’t. Gonna hurt,” Mac huffs in annoyance. It turns into the cough he was trying to avoid. A harsh, barking cough that rips through his raw throat. Sending spikes of pain through his ribs. He’s doubled over with exertion and tears of pain fill his eyes. 

He fights for breath around spasming lungs. 

“Good boy. That’s it. Good boy.” 

Mac collapses back against Jack’s chest again. Panting like he just ran a four-minute mile. His head rolls back, resting on Jack’s shoulder as if he doesn’t have the strength to hold it up anymore. 

He stares up at the ceiling. 

“Was right. That hurt.”

“I know, bud.” Jack’s hand reaches up, resting against Mac’s forehead. He sighs before brushing damp hair back from his face. 

Mac can tell, his fever is climbing. His face burns but he feels cold. So cold. Shivers wrack him, bones rattling, teeth chattering. He burrows further into Jack’s chest. His partner is normally a furnace but he feels cool against Mac’s skin. He longs for a blanket.

“Not until you stop trying to boil your brain, hoss,” Jack says, resuming the gentle massage of Mac’s chest. “Your fever keeps rising.”

“Positive feedback.”

“I mean I guess... I wasn’t meaning to compliment your fever-running abilities, but yeah, okay, good job immune system. Now if you could just stop workin’ so hard.”

“Immune system releases pyrogens,” Mac pants. Another cough burst from his chest. “Tells--tells,” he chokes on the words.

“Shh… it’s alright, save the lecture for when you can breathe,” Jack runs his fingers through Mac’s hair again. Comforting. Trying to ease his distress. 

“Tells the hippocampus that the temperature is too low.”

“S’pose it’s a little cold around here for a hippo.”

“Brain resets the thermostat,” Mac mumbles, ignoring Jack. 

“So it’s your brain I need to tell to quit working so hard? That sounds about right.”

“Positive feedback loop continues until the chain is broken,” Mac mumbles, dropping his head down toward his chest, groaning in distress.

“Easy hoss. Gotta find a way to get your temperature down.” 

A cool, damp towel drifts over his face. 

Mac flinches beneath it with a shudder. It’s too cold. Makes his bones ache. 

He moans. Trying to reach up, brush it from his face. His hands are caught. Held tight.

Behind him, Jack shifts. Easing him back so he’s reclining. 

“What? Stop,” Mac mumbles. The cloth presses harder against his face. It wraps around his nose, tight against his mouth.

“No,” Mac shouts. Eyes flying open in panic. He twists. Turns. Throws his head back. Pulling away.

_No, no, no_.

Jack’s familiar presence is gone. He’s not resting, protected, against Jack’s chest. The hands in his hair, manhandling him don’t have the right callouses. Aren’t gentle and soothing. They’re bruising, taunting. The chair he’s strapped in tight is tipped back. Balancing precariously on two legs. 

He knows what comes next. 

It’s still a shock when the water hits him. 

He writhes under the steady stream. Pouring through his hair and over his face. Keeping the towel pressed flush against his nose and mouth. 

Suffocating him. 

Tossing his head ineffectually. He can’t dislodge the towel. Can’t pull his head from the stream. 

Seconds tick on.

The flowing water continues.

Conserve what oxygen he has. Resists the urge, the demands his body makes to fight. Struggle.

He didn't have time to prepare for this. With the pneumonia he has brewing from repeated torture, he didn’t dare take a deep, gasping breath before they started again.

His lungs tickle again.

Quietly at first. Then demanding. 

He tamps down on the panic. Holding his breath as long as he can. Hold on. 

Until he can’t. Until his chest aches and burns.

Until he can’t fight against the reflexive inhale, his body’s attempts to save his life. 

Sucking in a chestful of water, Mac sputters. Thrashes. A full body spasm the moment the liquid hits his lungs. 

Struggling against the ropes. 

Twisting his head. 

Panic. Pain. 

Mac gasps. Choking breaths that send fire burning through his lungs. Coursing through his blood. 

The towel is ripped away. Landing with a heavy thwap against the floor. The chair slams down onto all four legs. Mac curls forward as far as he can. Pulling against the restraints. Stretched across his chest. Biting into his wrists. 

Every muscle in his chest, his abdomen, contracts as one, forcing the fluids from his lungs. The cough that rumbles deep in his chest sends shards of pain through his ribs.

His lungs are heavy.

Thick.

His vision grays out around the edges as he fights for breath. 

He needs to hold on. Just hold on. A little longer. 

Fighting back against the veil dropping over his eyes. 

He’s not going to pass out.

He can’t pass out. 

If he passes out they’ll throw him back in the cell.

Focus on breathing. Ignore the pain.

If they put him back in the cell there’s no way for him to protect them. No way for him to stop them from grabbing Jack, or Riley, or Bozer. He won't. He can't let them touch his friends. His family. Not if he can help it.  


He jerks his hands against the ropes. Works on loosening his bonds. He needs to be ready when the charges blow. He can hold on. A little long.

Just a little longer. 

The towel is back. 

Cold. Brushing against his face. And he nearly sobs. Pain and fear overwhelming him. 

He can’t. Not again. Not this soon. 

A firm hand holds his head steady as he thrashes. 

“Hey, hey, Mac, you’re safe.”

“No,” Mac’s voice cracks with a broken cry. 

“It’s me, bud.” The mattress beneath him shifts. A warm, familiar presence scoots in next to him.

Mac takes a shuddering breath. His fight stalls. 

“That’s it,” Jack encourages. “You’re safe.”

Fever bright eyes open, flinching against the light. Burning and gritty. 

“There he is,” Jack ducks his head, looking Mac in the eye. 

“Jack?”

“Right here, kiddo.” A cool hand cards through his hair. “You with me?”

“Um,” Mac swallows, eyes tracking the room. Phoenix Med. “Yeah. What happened?”

‘You got us out,” Jack says. His scruff is scruffier. Hair mussed, a look Mac recognizes. The way Jack runs a hand against his head when he’s worried. Stressed. Concerned about Mac. His eyes are reddened. “Used those charges you set as a distraction and got loose.”

Mac frowns. It’s a foggy memory, but there when he searches for it. Or at least parts of it. He remembers stumbling back down the hall to the cell. Desperate to reach his friends before their captors wake. Before the guards outside realize something is wrong. 

The door is heavy. Reinforced steel. His hands shake. He drops the paperclip and lockpick. It clatters against the floor and he could cry. Tears prickle behind his eyelids. 

He kneels, hands scrabbling against the cold floor, trying to get his fingers to cooperate. 

A cough tears through his chest. 

Using the door as leverage, he staggers to his feet. His vision darkening again. He shakes his head. With his forearm, he brushes drops of water from his face, pushes his hair out of his eyes.

The lock clicks. The door sticks

He slams his shoulder against it. Lurches through the doorway when it gives. 

“Jack,” he murmurs. His partner’s eyes are wide. Wild with rage. Dark with grief. His feet falter. The room spins as Jack steps closer. 

He’s falling, and then he’s not. Strong arms catch him. Warm brown eyes hover over him, concerned. A cool hand rests on his forehead and before the world went dark. 

“Hey, hey, Mac,” Jack squeezes his shoulder, shaking Mac from his memories. “You still with me, hoss? Or did you check out again?”

Mac nods. “How long?” He gestures towards the room.

“‘Bout two days. You’ve been in and out. Not sure you were even seeing me. Don’t think you were, cause you were yelling your head off that first night,” Jack swallows. “You’re sick, bud. Real sick. But getting better. Your blood pressure is better, your temperature is coming down. And you’ve been off the high flow oxygen since this morning.” 

Mac’s fingers wander towards the nasal cannula he can feel blowing into his nose.

“Ah. Leave it,” Jack scolds, catching his fingers.

“Wasn’t gonna take it off,” Mac pouts.

Jack snorts. “You’ve been all handsy with that tubing for two days. And your track record from before that isn’t great. Always trying to pull it off before you can breath.”

“How long?”

Jack frowns, leaning forward, carding a hand through Mac’s hair. “I told you bud, you’ve been here about two days. Do you remember?”

“No,” Mac shakes his head. “How long do I have to stay?”

“This is the part that’s always easier when you’re still asleep. You’ll stay however long they say you have to stay. You haven’t even been coherent yet.”

“I am now.”

“Debatable.”

Mac scowls.

“All of two minutes awake and you think you’re ready to run a marathon.”

“Not run. Maybe a slow walk,” Mac smirks at Jack, the smile dropping when Jack doesn’t return it. “I just want to go home.”

“You think if you’re not hooked up to an IV and can stand without falling flat on your face that means you can just do whatever you want.”

“I don’t like being here.”

“It’s better than the alternative,” Jack grumbles. He puts his hand on Mac’s shoulder. “Listen, hoss, I promise you, the second they tell you that you can leave, I’ll be here with a change of clothes and a ride home. But, Mac, I’m not kidding when I tell you that you were sick. Are sick. Your face was gray. Mac. When you collapsed. Your lips were purple. Your blood pressure was practically non-existent by the time we got you to a medic. You can’t keep scaring me like that, alright? I can’t… just don’t do that to me.”

Mac licks his lips, watching Jack’s face. A scabbed cut on his forehead. A yellowing bruise on his jaw. The exhausted, red-rimmed eyes. The deep purple crescent-shaped smudges under them. The fear, the pain of near loss, the worry. And something more. Mac has a hard time naming this look even though he knows, deep down, exactly what it is. It surprises him every time he sees it. 

And fills him with a familiar warmth. 

Jack brushes sweat stiff bangs back from Mac’s forehead. The knuckles on his hands bloodied and bruised. “I promise, I’ll take you home as soon as I can. As soon as the doctor says it’s alright. Until then you’re just gonna have to just put up with a little poking and prodding and some hovering.”

Mac opens his mouth to reply. His voice stolen by the look on Jack's face and instead gives a reluctant, almost imperceptible nod.

“Alright. Good. That’s good,” Jack says slowly, as if he’s expecting Mac to backtrack on his promise at any moment. 

“Jack, thank you,” Mac voice cracks as he whispers, meeting Jack’s gaze. Imploring him, begging him to recognize what those words really mean. What the look really means. The words that he can’t verbalize. Not yet. Not fully. Maybe someday.

Jack nods. He gives Mac a small smile. He gets it. He doesn’t need the words, because he knows. And Jack’s a man of actions anyway. 

“Think you’re maybe a little scrambled upstairs yet. I should be thanking you, hoss.” He holds Mac’s eyes. Keeps his attention. And maybe the words do mean something to him, because he repeats them. Lets Mac hear them in his voice. “Thank you, Mac.” 


End file.
